It's Christmas Eve. Time for the final stage of the ritual preparations. On Christmas Eve morning, the Systems Administrator finally decorates the mantel piece with holly and ivy. The birds have not generally left us many holly berries by now, but rose hips make a colourful substitute, and the Malus 'Red Sentinel' is laden with small, bright red apples and won't miss a few twigs. The SA is very clear that this cannot be done before Christmas Eve. The tree is allowed to come in earlier, but that's a Germanic import. The SA's mother was Welsh, and was strict on such matters. You must not bring ivy into the house before Christmas Eve, and you must never give a knife. If somebody does give you one (I suppose nowadays it might be a pruning knife, or a set of chef's knives, or a multi-bladed Swiss army pocket knife) you must pay them a penny for it.
The prohibition on putting decorations up too early extends to the flashing fairy lights that the SA will run up the bannisters, but not until today. I don't suppose ancient Welsh custom and superstition had anything to say on the subject of LEDs, but they are shrouded in ivy as well. Which looks very pretty and hides the wires. One thing we do have lots of is ivy. There is a reason why Christmas decorations are traditionally red and green, which is that that's what's growing outside for the picking.
At three I shall listen to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols. Even when I worked in London, the office generally packed up by noon, and if I was lucky with the trains I could still get home just in time for it. I like the music, and although I lapsed as an Anglican before even making it as far as confirmation, I like the readings. I like the reassuring sameness of it, the way the representatives of the townsfolk and of the college get their turn, the being told a story I've heard a lot of times before. Sitting by the fire, looking at our giant decorated Ent, with the holly and ivy on the mantelpiece, and the bannisters twinkling manically, that feels like the heart of Christmas. On Christmas Day itself, once you've unwrapped the presents and eaten the lunch, you feel the whole thing has peaked before the day is over.
But before then, I have to go to a funeral. A friend's husband died, twelve days ago, and their church has found them a date this side of Christmas for the funeral, which is today. Twelve noon. I feel terribly for her, and their children (by now adults). As I wrote before, to lose anyone is bad, but to do it at this time of the year must be even worse. She and her children will have their memories of Christmas Eve, and whatever it was they did together as a family, and putting out their Christmas stockings, and opening them, and now it will always be the day of their father's funeral, and the anniversary will come at a time just when you are expected to be especially jolly and sociable.
I didn't know her husband terribly well. She and I met through beekeeping, and found we had many other tastes and interests in common, so struck up a friendship outside the beekeeping association. I met him to chat to at various beekeeping events over the years, teas and barbecues, and at the annual agricultural show, and once a large group of us went for supper in a country pub, and he told an extremely funny story about finding out that one of their pet cats and dogs had let a live rat loose in their kitchen, which had taken up residence above their electric grill, whereupon he went into the hall to fetch his grandfather's sword to despatch it. He was the sort of faintly posh person who regarded it as entirely normal to keep his grandfather's sword in the hall.
I remember him smiling often, an amiable smile as if the world was a very entertaining place, which gave him an air of relaxed alertness. He liked classic cars, and was clever at making and mending things. By profession he was a maritime lawyer, though it wasn't something he talked about, at least at beekeeping meetings, and I only found out when my friend told me that he had checked through the terms and conditions of our Thames barge birdwatching trip, and didn't think much of them. I got the impression he had his own wide circle of friends, and was a very popular man. They seemed a happy and extremely well-matched couple, and I should think she will miss him dreadfully.
He'd been ill for years, one of those drawn-out illnesses where a bone marrow transplant bought a few years respite, then the creeping onset of tiredness and other symptoms signalled a relapse. Then followed bouts of chemotherapy so fierce he wasn't strong enough to complete them. His funeral will be in his village church, followed by refreshments in the village hall. I have never been to a funeral in a church before, but have been to the village hall quite a few times, for poultry shows, to my one and only attempt at Zumba, and a couple of WI meetings where I've been the star turn, talking about the woodland charity. Now I'm going there for funeral baked meats. It is all desperately sad.
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